University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE DISCOVERY.

When the departing footsteps of Burton, as he
traversed the avenue to the gate, no longer fell on
her ears, a shade of melancholy passed over Caroline's
features; tears, which she in vain sought
to suppress, silently filled her eyes; and, sighing
deeply, she leaned her head on her hand, and was
for some time lost in thought. Eugenie, after
striving unsuccessfully to make her more cheerful,
gently took her arm and led her to the portico, to
allure her from her desponding meditations by the
beauty of the night. The foliage was gently stirred
by the light south wind, and the stars sprinkled

their pale light upon the brow of the invalid as she
leaned on the arm of her lovely companion.

“Dear Caroline, if I may call you by so endearing
a term on so brief a friendship,” said Eugenie,
“give not away to this melancholy of spirits. I
have come here to cheer you, and I am resolved
to restore you to health,” she playfully added.
“'Tis wrong to pine so, and let the rose fade in
your cheek, and the lustre of your eyes be dimmed.
You will lose all your charms, and then how will
you get a lover? These lovers, like moths flitting
about a lamp, will hover round none but a bright
eye.”

Caroline shuddered, and clung nervously to her
arm, but made no reply.

“Nay, sweet Caroline,” she continued, kissing
her, “I meant not to touch so sensitive a chord; I
see, by that sigh, thou knowst what 'tis to love,”
and Eugenie herself sighed unconsciously, and was
for a moment silent.

“And does not that sigh, my gentle Eugenie,
tell a tale of love?” said Caroline, lifting her eyes
to her face, and striving to read its lineaments in
the faint starlight. “Come, Eugenie, tell me the
story of your young heart's adventures; 'twill serve
to beguile the time, and, perhaps, dissipate this
weary load of sadness which oppresses me. Walk
with me through this shady avenue, the dark
depths of which tempt to seclusion and invite to
tales of love. There is a little arbour beyond
where I love to sit when alone, and look out upon
the placid river, meditate upon the evening skies,
and fancy all bright heaven beyond them; or pass
the weary hours in reading some favourite volume.
Come with me, Eugenie, and I will listen well,
for your silence tells me you have a sweet story to
sooth my spirits with.”

“I cannot, dear Caroline, refuse to make you
happy; but my tale will be one of a silly passion,
which I dare not speak of to myself. Urge me not.”

“Then give me the history of your escape from
a Canadian convent, and which I have only partly
heard. There is a romance in all associated with
a nun that delights my imagination. If you will
not make me a confidant of your heart's secrets,
then give me the story of your adventures. I think
I could listen to it, told in your sweet accents, my
Eugenie, until the stars faded into morning.”

Caroline, while she spoke, drew her companion
to the steps of the portico, and together they descended
into the secluded walk, overhung with the
laurel, althea, and arborvitæ, that, meeting above,
formed a natural cloister, through which, during
the day, the sun fell upon the gravelled floor beneath
in a thousand flecks of golden light. Now
it was darkly shaded and silent, save that a single
bird, disturbed by their intruding footsteps, fluttered
higher among the branches, in the thick security
of which it had made his hiding-place for the night.
They slowly and in silence walked along the avenue,
impressed with the deep repose of a place
where heavenly contemplation seemed to have taken
up her abode.

“Poor bird, no harm shall come nigh you,” said
Caroline, as another inhabitant of those leafy
abodes flew twittering away among the shrubbery.
“Happy things! How often have I wished of
late that I had the wings of a bird, that I might
fly away and be at rest. But, Eugenie, I shall infuse
my own melancholy into your spirits if I talk
thus. Here is my little bower!” she added, as
they arrived at the termination of the avenue near
the water, the rippling flow of which they could distinctly
hear, and stood before the entrance of a summerhouse

half hidden in woodbine and jessamine.
“I wish it were moonlight, Eugenie,” she added,
with some liveliness of manner, “that you might
see what a lovely spot I have chosen for my hermitage.
When the full moon pierces the interstices
of the lattice and foliage, you would think the
floor strewn with silvery spangles. The light then
comes down like the scattered brilliancy of a thousand
stars; into so many gems does the thickly-woven
foliage break its disk! Why are you so
silent, Eugenie?”

“I was thinking, Caroline, what a happy effect
the exchange of the close room for this lovely garden,
the pleasant air and sweet seclusion, has upon
your spirits. Your voice is richly toned with returning
health and happiness. I cannot recognise
the plaintive invalid of a few moments since with
the animated being now before me. I would I
knew the secret of such a cure!”

“Alas, Eugenie! 'tis all illusion,” said Caroline,
in a melancholy tone. “I have passed many
pleasant hours in this bower; it is many days since
I have been here, and the sight of it revives the
past, for me no longer to return! Alas, it should
not have affected me thus, for bitter, bitter indeed
are the associations connected with it. Its memory
is full of mingled sweet and bitterness. But I
may not pour my griefs into your bosom. Oh, no.
It would kill me to see your eyes turned upon me
in coldness and scorn. My heart has its own
griefs locked up from every eye but that of Heaven.
There it may safely pour forth its misery!
But forgive me, Eugenie. I will no more sadden
your gentle and sympathizing bosom, which heaves
as if it shared the full burden of my woes.”

“My dear Caroline,” said Eugenie, embracing
her, “willingly would I share them. Unburden

your throbbing heart of all its griefs. 'Twill lighten
half the load to pour your sorrows into another's
ear.”

“Tempt me not!” she cried, with energy, releasing
herself from her embrace; “oh, tempt me not!
Thy scorn—his withering eye! Oh God!—no,
no, never! I will hold it closely in my bosom until
my heart burst with the pressure of its weight.
Eugenie, my dear, my finely-strung nerves are delicate,
and will not bear much; the lightest breath
will ring harsh tones from their tremulous chords.”

“Dear Caroline, sooth your agitation. If you
will listen, I will tell you a tale of love; I will refuse
you nothing, only calm your feelings. Sit
here by my side, and I will relate how a silly nun
let a cavalier run away with her, and how, when
he went to the wars, she was foolish enough to run
after him. Sit by me, and, while I speak, you can
watch the river flowing past so deep and stilly, with
the stars reflected in its bosom like another heaven.”

“No, no! not there, not there!” she exclaimed,
suddenly sinking into the opposite seat; and then
added, faintly, “he sat' there when last we met here!
No, Eugenie, no,” she said, with assumed playfulness,
“you must yield to my wilfulness. I am
given to strange humours of late. I will lean on
your shoulder thus while you are speaking, and
gaze on your dark eyes if this poor light will let
me. I love dark eyes, Eugenie. They tell of
happy hearts and a sunny life. Blue eyes seem
to me like the heavens; at times beautiful and
clear, and the emblem of celestial peace, but oftener
darkened and varied by clouds and tempests,
smiling and weeping by turns.”

“Your eyes are emblems alone of April skies,
my dear Caroline.”

“Indeed they have been of late, Eugenie. But

once they had more of sunshine in them than of
rain. Now tell me your tale; I shall listen with a
child's wonder.”

“Shall it be of love or escape?”

“'Twill be of both if you are the heroine, I think.”

Eugenie laughed, and then sighed, and then began
her story. She assumed at first a lively and
humorous strain, which, coloured by her feelings
as they were strengthened by the associations her
narrative called up, insensibly became more natural,
and, finally, energetic.

“There was, then, Caroline, once upon a time, a
certain orphan nun, who, nevertheless, did not like
to be a nun. She scandalized the graver sisters
by her profane and worldly desires, made false
stitches in her embroidery, broke her tambour-frame
regularly thrice a day, and invented tales to
vex the confessor.”

“And, pray, what was the name of this pretty
specimen of mischief?”

“Her name concerns not the tale,” said the
maiden, demurely. “At length it chanced a cavalier
came to the convent disguised as a priest, and,
imposing on the reverend father, took the confessional
chair.”

“No doubt this cavalier knew there was one of
the penitents who `would not be a nun,' that he
adopted this stratagem.”

“Not so. He was escaping in disguise, being
in an enemy's country, and sought the convent's
hospitality. It was by mere accident she met him.
When,” continued Eugenie, more seriously, “the
nun went to confess, she told him in her confession
how she pined for the free world; and so, when
he had heard her story, he all at once came out of
the confessional and kneeled before her, a handsome
youth, most beautiful to behold.”

“And I dare say the nun screamed, and then
threw herself into his arms, and they both ran off
together.”

“That same day,” continued Eugenie, smiling,
“the nun, trusting all to the honour of the youthful
cavalier, left the convent with him in disguise.”

“Poor silly nun,” said Caroline, sighing; “I hope
she rued not this trust!”

“The saints forefend!” replied Eugenie; “the
youth was as honourable as he was comely and
bold.”

“'Twere a lovely sight, this bold youth and fair
maiden! Whither went they?”

“'Tis a long story. They rode all night, and
the next day reached Quebec. She was received
into the governor's castle, and afterward freed her
cavalier from prison, into which the governor, who
was his country's enemy, had thrown him.”

“How freed she him, this bold maiden?”

“By deceiving the guard, and becoming, for an
hour, prisoner in his stead.”

“Ha! I think the cavalier who would purchase
his liberty at such a price were worthy to live his life
out within a prison's walls. I dare say she loved
him after this, nevertheless; for it is hard to keep
anger against one we've loved,” she said, sadly.

“Censure not the youth, fair Caroline,” said Eugenie,
with animation; “he knew no meanness.
I made him fly! I made his obedience the test of
his love!”

“Thou! I half guessed thou wert the nun.”

“Thou hast guessed rightly, Caroline. Censure
him not, for you will blame one who is your
friend.”

“Nay, I know you are my best, my dearest
friend,” she said, embracing her, misapplying a
term which Eugenie meant for another; “forgive

me. Your story interests me. What became of
your—for such I must now call him—what became
of your lover?”

“He went far away to the wars, for he was a
soldier, and was absent many months.”

“And did not my Eugenie hear from him all the
while? and what became of the sweet nun in his
absence?”

“He sent no tidings of his safety; and she, after
waiting with great patience, accompanied some
friends who were journeying in the neighbourhood
of his army, if perchance she might hear of or even
see him.”

“Then thou wert much in love, Eugenie! That
is a genuine sigh. Proceed; I honour you for your
true love; but you were led by it into great danger,
should you find your lover and he not prove
true.”

“I did find him, Caroline. I met him in the presence
of his chief, who looked with suspicion on my
love, and would have misconstrued, to my shame,
my devotion to Edward.”

“Eugenie!” almost shrieked Caroline, grasping
her arm. “Oh God! But no, no, it could not be!
I will not injure him by a half-formed thought of
suspicion. Go on! mind me not! It was a sudden
pang; I am better now go—go—go on, Eugenie.”

“I fainted for joy on recognising him, and, when
I recovered, he was gone, and I was in the presence
of strangers.”

“And then,” said Caroline, with assumed gayety,
“you no doubt fainted again, like a proper heroine.”

“No, I did not. I was kept prisoner as if I were
a mere child or a criminal, while much was said to
me to turn the current of my affections.”

“And you were not false, Eugenie?”

“No. Though much was told me false of him,
of which, if the ninth part were true, I would tear
his image from my heart, if it took life with it, and
trample it thus beneath my feet,” she said, energetically
stamping upon the ground. “But I did not
believe them, and only loved him the better that I
found him beset with enemies.”

“You would not have been a woman if you had
done otherwise. How escaped you?”

“The next day I was conveyed under escort to
a villa not far off, there to wait, as the chief said,
to see if my lover proved worthy of me; if not, he
wished to bestow my hand, as if chance had given
him the right to do so, on a youth of his household.”

“What, another lover?”

“No, no, Caroline. He was of a noble presence
and courteous, but I cared not for him.
Nevertheless, he was very kind, and defended him
I loved; and for one word he spoke in defence of
him whom all conspired to injure, I could have
loved him.”

“So fickle, Eugenie? This chief, then, would
not have had much ado to bestow your hand where
he wished if your lover had been out of the way
or you had proved him false?”

“If I thought you serious, Caroline, I should be
hurt. Yet this youth were worthy a highborn
maiden's love; but I think not of him, unless I
win him to give him to you, Caroline.”

“No, Eugenie! Proceed. Where was your
lover, pray, when this rival was in the way?”

“After we landed, for we went in a boat to the
villa, our guard was set upon by an ambuscade,
and the next moment I was in the arms of the
leader.”

“Who was—”

“Edward.”

“Edward! It is very strange! And all this
happened in the far Canadas? I doubt not 'tis a
land of romance. You are a lovely heroine, Eugenie.
But proceed.”

“It was not in the Canadas; but I will tell you
by-and-by. It was twilight. I was lifted to a saddle,
and while my protector, with his guard, were
kept passive, Edward seized the reins of my horse,
and, spurring his own, urged the animals forward.
We were soon joined by the whole troop, and galloped
along the road and through the forests with
the noise of thunder, the spurs, chains, and armour
ringing bravely. Both pleased and terrified,
I still enjoyed my situation, and, catching the spirit
of the occasion, almost wished I had been a soldier.”

“I verily believed there was an ambitious and
restless spirit beneath those soft downcast eyes of
thine. Didst have a chance of proving thy courage,
my cavalier?” said Caroline, with increased
gayety and with playful irony. “I dare say, if
your lover had not obeyed you at that time, you
would have challenged him to single combat.
Well, my military nun, what happened next? I
would Burton were here to listen to your tale. He
could take lessons in valour from it. What adventure
next?”

“After half an hour's riding the guards were
dismissed, and I was left alone with Edward and
his servant. We then rode forward, and at length,
on his turning from the highway, I demanded of
him a knowledge of his intentions, saying that, as
an honourable maiden, I should not ride the country
with any cavalier by night, love him never so
much.”

“And I dare say,” said Caroline, her spirits in a
fine flow, “you threatened him with present chastisement

by sword or pistol, as might suit his valour,
if he declined replying to your very proper
question.”

“Not so; he told me he was to lead me where I
could perform a deed of charity; and so affectingly
appealed to my heart, that I could not refuse him.”

“'Twas to go with him to church, this deed of
charity, I am well assured, Eugenie. And so you
went?”

“No, I did not,” replied Eugenie, in the same
tone of raillery. “It was to be the companion of a
young female friend, an invalid, whom he was
bound to protect, from friendship for her father,
who fell in the northern wars.”

“And this invalid!” said Caroline, her suspicions
reawakened, gasping for breath, and pressing
Eugenie's arm until she cried out with pain.

“My dear Caroline! restrain your feelings!
What has moved you?” exclaimed Eugenie, in terror.

“The invalid! who? her name? speak—for—
oh God! I fear, I fear—speak!”

Eugenie in vain strove to sooth her.

“Will you not answer?” she cried, rising up and
grasping her shoulders with a firm hold; “was it
not me, Caroline Germaine?”

“It was, Caroline; but be calm—”

“And was not thy lover's name Edward?”

“Indeed, Caroline, release me! You torture
me! I cannot endure this grasp!”

“Answer, Eugenie de Lisle, if it were thy last
word! Was it not Edward?”

“Yes, Caroline.”

“Edward Burton!” she whispered, through her
closed lips, with increased energy.

“Yes.”

A convulsive shudder passed over her frame,

she released her hold of the distressed maiden, and,
uttering a piercing shriek, fell lifeless to the ground.

Eugenie echoed the thrilling cry; and, after attempting
in vain to raise her, flew with the speed
of a fawn along the avenues, and, rushing into the
dwelling, called on the servants for aid. She had
scarcely disappeared in the windings of the walk
when a man made his way through the hedge beside
the arbour, and hastily entered it. With an
exclamation of sympathy he lifted Caroline from
the ground, and, without hesitation, traversed the
avenue along which, as he leaped the hedge, he had
seen Eugenie flying. At the foot of the portico
he met her, accompanied by the terrified servants
bearing lights. On seeing the stranger she started
back, and suppressed a cry that rose to her lips;
then advancing towards him, she exclaimed, in a
tone of joyful surprise,

“Colonel Arden! thank God! Bear her into
the house. Is she—is she? oh, I dare not know
the truth!”

“My dear Miss de Lisle,” said the stranger, “be
not distressed. She has only fainted. Preserve
your presence of mind; it is all called for now.”

While he was speaking he bore Caroline into
the parlour, and, by Eugenie's direction, gently
placed his lovely burden upon the sofa. Then,
leaving her to the more experienced care of Eugenie
and the servants, he walked into the hall, which
was lighted by a lamp in a glass globe suspended
from the ceiling. The light fell upon his fine intellectual
forehead as he paced to and fro beneath
it. His eyes were cast into deep shadow, which,
however, did not conceal their fierce glow; his
lip was compressed with determination, and indignation
gave a stern expression to his fine features.
As he walked, his step rang as if the whole

man sympathized in the emotion of the spirit within
his breast. His reflections were evidently of a
dark and violent character. One moment he would
strike the hilt of his sword vehemently, and half
draw it from the scabbard; then, as if changing
a sudden purpose, he thrust it back again with a
loud clang. Now he would suddenly pause in
his walk, and listen to catch some token of returning
life to the frame of the gentle girl; or, tapping
softly at the door, learn from the lips of Eugenie
herself, who, pale and distressed, answered his light
summons, the state of her patient. At last Eugenie
came into the hall, and informed him, as he
hastened to meet her, that she slept.

“Pray Heaven,” he said, solemnly, “that it may
be the sleep of eternity.”

“The holy saints forbid!” replied Eugenie, with
surprise.

“Why,” he said, “need we wish the unfortunate
to live, when life is purchased with tears?
Why recall the wretched and broken-hearted from
the threshold of the grave, that opens its welcome
bosom to receive the weary body to its embrace?
Why call back to sin and sorrow the spirit
which is spreading its wings for its heavenward
flight?”

There is but one step from mutual sympathy,
excited by a cause that appeals to the sensibilities,
to confidence. The low-toned communion of the
sick-chamber, where a youth and maiden chance
to be the watchers, goes farther to awaken love in
their hearts than a tête-à-tête in a leafy bower, or
a walk beneath the pale moon. The heart is at
this time softened by sympathy with suffering; the
feelings are then gentle; benevolence is active;
and kind words and tenderness characterize the
intercourse of the speakers. This gentle tone of

voice and manner, caused by the sympathy of
human nature with present suffering, insensibly
takes a warmer character, and love in the guise of
our best feelings steals insensibly into the heart.
There is no better prescription to make a youth
and a maiden love one another than to enlist them
in the same act of charity; no contiguity so dangerous,
if that policy which governs those matches
that are not made in heaven would have them, in
reference to each other, strangers to this passion.

After a few moments' conversation in relation to
Caroline, in those low tones which are as equally
the accents of love as of sympathy, confidence
seemed insensibly, and at once, to be established
between the two, and they conversed together like
proved friends. Their voices were attuned to the
atmosphere of suffering; but Arden's had the full
pathos of love; low, deep, and touching; which,
if it at all startled her, Eugenie easily referred to
the remote cause, the invalid. Her heart was
opened by the distress of Caroline. Its most generous
impulses were uppermost; while gratitude
for the sympathy of Arden, and the relief she
experienced by his presence, rendered her heart,
as it would that of any woman so situated, peculiarly
susceptible of impression. This, however,
Arden sought to make only by look and accent,
with the most persevering, but, at the same time,
the most delicate approaches; determining to press
his suit at the moment she should become convinced
of the faithlessness of her first lover, for
then the heart yields most readily to the introduction
of a second passion; for it is sympathy, to
which love is akin, it then seeks. Having overheard
the conversation between her and Caroline,
he had the advantage of knowing that she did not
regard him with indifference; and he flattered himself

that, if he could displace the image of Burton
from her heart, his own happiness would be secured.
He therefore determined, both from a
principle of justice and personal interest, which
almost always mingles with our best acts, to expose,
with as little abruptness as possible, his dark
designs, and especially to show her that Caroline
had been his victim.

A slight movement in the room as he came
to this conclusion called Eugenie from the hall;
and turning from the door, he with a thoughtful
brow paced up and down the saloon, thinking how
he should introduce the painful subject with the
most delicacy.